Encounter of Trashiness
This happening occurred some time ago, perhaps a month or more, and I don't know why I haven't blogged about it yet. However, the time is now and the memory has not been wiped yet, so enjoy!
The gang was headed out to camp at Brice Creek. Scott and I had the upper hand, as I didn't have to go to class that Friday, and Scott didn't work on Friday. He therefore came down Thursday night, we packed up and prepared to leave early Friday in order to land ourselves a nice little campsite.
After a short stop at Subway in Cottage Grove, we were well on our warm sunny way as the road went from wide to narrow to no painted lines and canopied by doug firs and birches. The air was cool and refreshing, whipping up from the boistrous Brice Creek.
We have a "usual" spot near the end of all the campable areas, however, it was taken. There sat a very large truck with side compartments and an enclosed bed. There was a family strewn about, apparently enjoying themselves. The site next to it was also taken, but only by a van and some towels draped over the hood. As there were no tents or food or otherwise in this campsite, I figured it would be appropriate to ask the gentleman if it was permanently taken, or if they could move their shitty van. I cautiously approached the man, who was half naked and sun tanned to death. He paid me absolutely no attention until I was practically on top of him and asked whether that other site was taken. In a very dismissive tone, he informed me that not only was that site taken, the one across the street was too. I glanced over to see several coolers (and nothing else) occupying that site. More than just his demeanor, one could tell that this guy was, oh what's the phrase, cracked the fuck out. So was the rest of his family, who were enduring varying degrees of abuse from obnoxious dogs to wandering cats to a screaming baby and even louder mother.
Sometimes when you go camping, you have awuful neighbors. It happens. Determined to be in one of these campsites, Scott and I went across the street (where the coolers were) to find another spot. Low and behold, there was a large clearing in the forest where several tents could easily fit. There was even a burned out fire pit ready for use. We slowly debated whether or not we wanted to camp next to the Grimersons. Throwing caution and good sense to the wind, we began to unpack.
After trudging several heavy loads 60 feet from the car to the campsite, Mr. Grimerson began his little show. He opened several of the side hatches on his rig to reveal an entire sound system, complete with sub woofers and amplifiers. He played, nay blasted, Eminem circa 2000 from the trembling vehicle. I know I enjoy my exaggerations at times, but I am not kidding you when I say the volume was deafening. I think I said something like, "what the fuck?!" and looked over to see Mrs. Grimerson yelling at the same kid and the other daughter clutching her head and curling up like a ball. The dogs started yelping and the cats ran for cover. We were stopped in our tracks. Was he kidding? What were we supposed to do? Should we unpack more? The conversation about whether or not to look for another campsite was renewed, with more emphasis put on the "yes, we absolutely must move" side of things.
After trudging several heavy loads 60 feet from the campsite to the car, we were incensed and ready to give Mr. Grimerson a piece of our minds. Scott even suggested that we do, but then I thought back to my drug days. People who are high on something (I'm going to go out on a limb here and say meth) aren't to be fucked with. This guy was now glaring menacingly at us and I had no intention of taking his grimy fist to my face. Frustrated and now with more campsite-hunting ahead of us, we slowly rolled past his shitsite. The moment we came upon the fucker, he turned off the sound completely, waved and sneered, "have a nice day!"
As with every good Hollywood story, this one ends happily. We found an even better campsite, far from the Grimersons and we had a fantastic weekend. That is, after Sara and I gathered and took care of the seven bags of rotten trash in the campsite.
Figurative trash and literal trash. I leave it up to you which one the Grimersons most resemble.
The gang was headed out to camp at Brice Creek. Scott and I had the upper hand, as I didn't have to go to class that Friday, and Scott didn't work on Friday. He therefore came down Thursday night, we packed up and prepared to leave early Friday in order to land ourselves a nice little campsite.
After a short stop at Subway in Cottage Grove, we were well on our warm sunny way as the road went from wide to narrow to no painted lines and canopied by doug firs and birches. The air was cool and refreshing, whipping up from the boistrous Brice Creek.
We have a "usual" spot near the end of all the campable areas, however, it was taken. There sat a very large truck with side compartments and an enclosed bed. There was a family strewn about, apparently enjoying themselves. The site next to it was also taken, but only by a van and some towels draped over the hood. As there were no tents or food or otherwise in this campsite, I figured it would be appropriate to ask the gentleman if it was permanently taken, or if they could move their shitty van. I cautiously approached the man, who was half naked and sun tanned to death. He paid me absolutely no attention until I was practically on top of him and asked whether that other site was taken. In a very dismissive tone, he informed me that not only was that site taken, the one across the street was too. I glanced over to see several coolers (and nothing else) occupying that site. More than just his demeanor, one could tell that this guy was, oh what's the phrase, cracked the fuck out. So was the rest of his family, who were enduring varying degrees of abuse from obnoxious dogs to wandering cats to a screaming baby and even louder mother.
Sometimes when you go camping, you have awuful neighbors. It happens. Determined to be in one of these campsites, Scott and I went across the street (where the coolers were) to find another spot. Low and behold, there was a large clearing in the forest where several tents could easily fit. There was even a burned out fire pit ready for use. We slowly debated whether or not we wanted to camp next to the Grimersons. Throwing caution and good sense to the wind, we began to unpack.
After trudging several heavy loads 60 feet from the car to the campsite, Mr. Grimerson began his little show. He opened several of the side hatches on his rig to reveal an entire sound system, complete with sub woofers and amplifiers. He played, nay blasted, Eminem circa 2000 from the trembling vehicle. I know I enjoy my exaggerations at times, but I am not kidding you when I say the volume was deafening. I think I said something like, "what the fuck?!" and looked over to see Mrs. Grimerson yelling at the same kid and the other daughter clutching her head and curling up like a ball. The dogs started yelping and the cats ran for cover. We were stopped in our tracks. Was he kidding? What were we supposed to do? Should we unpack more? The conversation about whether or not to look for another campsite was renewed, with more emphasis put on the "yes, we absolutely must move" side of things.
After trudging several heavy loads 60 feet from the campsite to the car, we were incensed and ready to give Mr. Grimerson a piece of our minds. Scott even suggested that we do, but then I thought back to my drug days. People who are high on something (I'm going to go out on a limb here and say meth) aren't to be fucked with. This guy was now glaring menacingly at us and I had no intention of taking his grimy fist to my face. Frustrated and now with more campsite-hunting ahead of us, we slowly rolled past his shitsite. The moment we came upon the fucker, he turned off the sound completely, waved and sneered, "have a nice day!"
As with every good Hollywood story, this one ends happily. We found an even better campsite, far from the Grimersons and we had a fantastic weekend. That is, after Sara and I gathered and took care of the seven bags of rotten trash in the campsite.
Figurative trash and literal trash. I leave it up to you which one the Grimersons most resemble.
posted by Infused Confusion at
12:01 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home